Your support helps us to tell the story
From reproductive rights to climate change to Big Tech, The Independent is on the ground when the story is developing. Whether it's investigating the financials of Elon Musk's pro-Trump PAC or producing our latest documentary, 'The A Word', which shines a light on the American women fighting for reproductive rights, we know how important it is to parse out the facts from the messaging.
At such a critical moment in US history, we need reporters on the ground. Your donation allows us to keep sending journalists to speak to both sides of the story.
The Independent is trusted by Americans across the entire political spectrum. And unlike many other quality news outlets, we choose not to lock Americans out of our reporting and analysis with paywalls. We believe quality journalism should be available to everyone, paid for by those who can afford it.
Your support makes all the difference.Pity poor Courtney Love, former rebel icon now firmly beached upon the shores of Hollywood compromise: desperate for proper stardom, in its old-fashioned, movie-biz glamour-puss form, yet equally keen to retain a grasp on the notoriety that washed her up there in the first place. The trouble is, that's so far in the past now - her last release was 1998's Celebrity Skin - that it's virtually history. The result is America's Sweetheart, which seems to be fighting the same old battles again, when, frankly, nobody but Love and a few sad grunge holdouts gives a damn. Can she really be taking a pop at Julian Cope in "But Julian, I'm a Little Bit Older Than You"? And if she isn't referring to her late husband in lines such as: "Hey, God, you owe me one more song/ So I can prove to them/ That I'm so much better than him", then who? Despite the involvement of co-writers such as Linda Perry and - bizarrely - Bernie Taupin, this is clearly Love's album, stuffed with references to sex and drugs and suicide, and fronted by that same surly, sulky rant'n'roar, atop designer-punk music that sounds dangerously close to the formulaic rock-chick style of Pat Benatar. Not that she'd notice: "Why does it rain on my parade/ Why does the song remain the same?" she gripes in one song, seemingly oblivious to her ossified musical state.
Join our commenting forum
Join thought-provoking conversations, follow other Independent readers and see their replies
Comments